


Into the snowy reaches of the North

by raiyana



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms
Genre: Culture and Customs, F/F, Gen, Lossoth - Freeform, Skinwalker, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:47:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23200441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: Not much is known of the elusive Lossoth - a small tale set around their main canon appearance.
Relationships: Halla/Bersa(OFC)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 9
Collections: Worldbuilding Exchange 2020





	Into the snowy reaches of the North

**Author's Note:**

> If you like, this can be the tale Dubhán tells in the other fic ;)

Hunting was always more fun with Bersa, Halla thought, smiling at her companion whose breath fogged in the chill air. Changing the grip on her spear, she gestured silently.

Bersa rose up on her hind legs, coming down hard on the ice with all her considerable strength and weight on her forepaws, splitting the thick frozen layer with a resounding crack. She did it twice, making the ice tremble beneath Halla’s feet.

Halla threw the spear.

“Got it!” she laughed, staring at the fat seal with her spear sticking out its side.

Bersa grinned, huffing a laugh at her and nudging her gently – for such a great bear, at any rate – with her side.

“ _Fine_ ,” Halla amended, grinning at her, “ _we_ got it.” It would last them a while; Bersa would get the main share, of course, but there’d be plenty left to take home to the village after. Pulling on the rope attached to her spear – made from the bones of one of the large whales that sometimes passed the Bay – she hummed an old song to herself as she quickly cut up the seal, carving up the meats to take home and wrapping them in its skin while Bersa tore into the rest of the carcass.

“Wanna bet we can snatch an even fatter one?” Halla asked. Auntie had asked her to bring back a good measure of blubber for their lamps, and Halla stored it in the shallow jar she had left on her sled, hoisting the parcel of meat up beside a couple of frozen companions. 

Swallowing her meal, Bersa grinned, licking her lips in challenge.

Yes, hunting was better when Bersa came along. _Nights warmer, too_ , she smiled to herself, kicking off the sled until it sped across the frozen bay.

Bersa ran alongside easily, her muzzle bloody with delight.

* * *

“Who’re they?” Halla asked, wandering into the village, her catches on the sled she dragged behind her, to find most of her kin surrounding a group of tall strangers who looked like their stores had run out weeks before. And yet, beneath the grubby gaunt faces there was something _strong_ \- a will to live that Halla had to admire. 

_Warriors, for sure... but are they **his**?_

Bersa growled a low warning, but Halla’s hand stayed her from pushing ahead to stand between her and the stranger.

“Arrrrved-ui,” old Gagarr said, trying to wrap his tongue around the name. “He says he’s a king in the south.”

“Don’t much look like a king to me,” Bersa huffed, pulling her fur cloak from the sled to cover her nakedness, slightly breathless with the shifting of her skin. 

One of the men with the stranger – they all seemed to surround him, so Halla believed that he was their leader, at least – gasped, babbling something in a strange tongue as he pointed at Bersa, his face white as the snow pushing against the wooden walls of the longhouse.

Bersa sent him a grin, more frightening than welcoming, showing off her sharp teeth.

Halla tried not to laugh when the man stepped back, tripping over his own feet in fright.

“ _Daughters_ ,” Geir called warningly. Halla shifted her grip on her spear slightly as she looked for her father among the crowd, finding the blind shaman standing beside the man who looked like the group's natural leader. “Meet our guests.”

Halla straightened slightly, holding her head high as she caught Bersa’s hand in her own, comforted by the gentle squeeze as they walked together through the crowd.

“I, Halla Frostfoot, Geir’s daughter, greet thee,” Halla said, nodding formally. “With me stands Bersa of the Snowlands, heart-wife of mine.”

Bersa smiled again, but the king seemed to be made of sterner stuff than his underling and was not cowed. Bersa’s smile grew slightly warmer.

“But-but,” the fallen man – helped back on his feet by one of his friends – interjected, “that was _a bear_! A great white snowbear!”

Bersa turned her head slightly, growling at him, the thin braids of her pale hair clacking with the sound of wooden beads and bone talismans. He wisely drew back, swallowing visibly.

“We have brought four seals, father,” Halla said calmly, ignoring the cowering man. Did they not have skinchangers in the south? “Perhaps your guests will share a fire and a tale from their homeland?”

Looking at them, they were pitiful, gaunt and dirty, but Halla wasn’t going to judge – surviving winters here required hard work from everyone – she simply wanted to ensure that they were not secret allies of the King of Magic.

“He does not smell like evil,” Bersa agreed, her voice carrying the rumbly purr of her people, her hand warm around Halla’s. “I will share a catch with him.”

Lifting Bersa's hand in her own, Halla pressed a kiss to scarred brown knuckles in silent appreciation.

“Arrved-ve is welcome among us,” Geir announced, the butt of his spear hitting the hard ground twice, the small mouse skull at the top rattling with familiarity. Gesturing them towards the longhouse, he lead the way, feet landing with the surety of a wellworn path. 

“Arvedui,” the man said carefully, his pronunciation difficult to mimic; Halla recognised the tongue only because Grandmother had insisted on passing on the old elf-legends to her before she died, teaching her their language of spells. “My name is Arvedui, King of Arnor, and I thank you for your hospitality.”


End file.
